


On A Whim

by HereToWrite



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Time War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 01:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19842793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereToWrite/pseuds/HereToWrite
Summary: The Doctor hates war meetings, a bunch of useless idiots gathered around a table that’s all they were. A group of fools who met together under the pretense that they were going to discuss how to end the war, but always ended with a discussion of how they would keep it going instead. That’s all they did, gather and decide which planet they would decimate next...Rassilon, he was so tired, perhaps he could just close his eyes for a few…“We could always use the Earth,” the name erupts in his eardrums, sweeping away all weariness and leaving something cold and desperate in its wake. “It’s full of resources and if we hit it early enough in the timestream we should be able to siphon off most of them before the native species discover them.”“No!” The Doctor interrupts, his hearts hammering wildly in his chest, not them. Never them.Or Every once in a while—on a whim, if the wind’s in the right direction—you happen to be kind and that's how you slaughter millions.





	On A Whim

_You let one of them go but that’s nothing new. Every now and then a little victim’s spared because she smiled, ’cause he’s got freckles. ‘Cause they begged. And that’s how you live with yourself. That’s how you slaughter millions. Because once in a while—on a whim, if the wind’s in the right direction—you happen to be kind._

_\---_

The Doctor hates war meetings, a bunch of useless idiots gathered around a table that’s all they were. A group of fools who met together under the pretense that they were going to discuss how to end the war, but always ended with a discussion of how they would keep it going instead. That’s all they did, gather and decide which planet they would decimate next. Which species they were going to render homeless, lifeless, or extinct. Which families they were going to turn into refugees or orphans. It makes him want to run and never be a part of this again, but here he is, sitting and waiting, while all around him voices discuss the end of planets. They drone on about dwindling resources, and where to find them. They discuss dwindling lives, and how to save them, but he knew the truth. No one was going to be saved by the end of this war. They were all going to be either dead or scarred beyond recognition.

Rassilon, he was so tired, perhaps he could just close his eyes for a few…

“We could always use the Earth,” the name erupts in his eardrums, sweeping away all weariness and leaving something cold and desperate in its wake. “It’s full of resources and if we hit it early enough in the timestream we should be able to siphon off most of them before the native species discover them.”

“And what of the native species?” Another voice counters, drawling out the question in the same way one would ask about the weather or a two for one sale at the local shop.

“Basic lifeforms, barely sentient, hardly worth the worry,” the Strategist replies easily. “As a level five planet they don’t even register on a psychic level—practically brain dead. I think that the easiest thing to do would be to engineer a plague. If we can create something that only affects the native lifeforms, then we can leave the rest of the planet intact and continue on with—”

“No!” The Doctor interrupts, his hearts hammering wildly in his chest, not them. Never them.

Heads whirl to look at him, the eyes of general and commanders and politicians all gazing at him with varying degrees of scrutiny.

The Strategist speaks first, frowning, “Is it too slow?” He questions, flicking through his notes for more options, with a sigh of frustration. “Well, I suppose we could organize a paradox. That should call in the Reapers and we can let them clear out the population. The only problem with that is it can be a bit, well, unpredictable. We’ll have to find a way to contain the Reapers, and the paradox, to that planet alone. Perhaps if we briefly put a time lock around—"

“You misunderstand me,” the Doctor interrupts, voice icy. “We will not be manufacturing a plague on the Earth, because we will not be using it for this war.”

Roars of protest erupt across the table, and the Strategist leaps to his feet spluttering.

“You can’t be serious! The Earth is a prime military location! I’ve specifically picked it because just the ability to build an orbital station in its proximity could change everything! We could win the war!”

The Doctor wants to laugh at the statement. Win the war? There’s no winning this war. Can’t they see? They’ve all already lost. The Time Lords, the Daleks, and every last species that has gotten caught in the crossfires and fallen by their hands. Sure, maybe with the help of the Earth they’d get the upper hand, but how long would that last? A century? Maybe two? And then what? There would always be another battle to fight, another sacrifice to be made, another planet to decimate. There’s no way to win this war, that was becoming clearer every day, and by the end of it, they were all going to lose. No victors, just death, and destruction, and survivors.

The Strategist is still looking at him, waiting, challenging, and the Doctor leans forward, hands tucking under his chin. He doesn’t need to stand to feel powerful, to feel like he’s in control. He’s faced far worse than the Time Lords that surround him. After all, what are they compared to the Nightmare Child? To the Dogma Virus? To the lives he had taken? What are they compared to the war that has left him widowed and orphaned all at once?

“Win the war some other way,” he says simply, calmly.

“And how do you suggest we do that?” Snaps the Strategist, he’s drawing himself up to his full height now, because he does need to stand to feel in control, to feel powerful. That’s why this regeneration is too many meters tall and has too broad shoulders. To some, it may appear threatening, but the Doctor sees it for what it is. A comfort blanket. A false sense of security dreamt up by the horrors of war.

“I haven’t the faintest idea, but we won’t be using the Earth to do it.”

“You, Doctor, are a rogue at best, and an outlaw at worse,” comes the hissing response. “Why should we listen to you? What's to stop us from leaving right now and claiming Earth's resources. Resources, I might add, that we can use far more effectively than the creatures who currently inhabit the planet?”

“BECAUSE IT’S MINE!” The Doctor roars, slamming his hands against the table, around him lords and ladies jump, but he pays them no mind. The Earth has now officially been threatened, and the part of himself that he hates has finally come rocketing up to the surface of his psyche as a result. The part that burns like the twin suns and freezes like the ice-capped mountains all at once. The part that demands to be listened to and demands to be feared. The part that is reborn into the warrior he had tried so desperately to avoid becoming, but in the end it was inevitable. He was inevitable. So now, he exists as Ka Faraq Gatri, the Destroyer of Worlds, but as long as he breathes he will not let them have this one.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm the racing of his hearts, the screaming in his head. When he speaks again, it’s softer, calmer, but it’s the deadly sort of calm. The one that demands respect and dares anyone to oppose him. 

“The Earth,” he begins anew, “is not to be used. It is under my protection and it will not be sullied with the boots and the guns of this war. If you so much as lay a finger on that planet, if you even breathe talk of war in its general direction, then you’ll have made an enemy of me.”

“And you’ll do what?” The Strategist sniffs. “Desert? I think we can survive this war without you, Doctor.”

The Doctor smiles wickedly, “No sir, I’ll attack. How much damage do you think I could do before you lot manage to stop me?”

Silence.

He continues, still seated, still cold and clam and deadly. “The Earth,” he reiterates, “is mine and I won’t let you touch it, but if you’re feeling particularly idiotic today then why won’t you go ahead and try. I’d love to stop you.”

He watches the war council and he knows they’re weighing their options. There’s three obvious choices by his counting. They could kill him, lock him up, or yield to his demands. He’s too good of a soldier to be put down and too much of an escapist to be locked up, they need him and so they’ll yield to his demands. They always do.

The Strategist though, he isn’t going to yield. The Doctor can see it in his eyes, all fire and no mercy. In the end, it doesn’t matter, because the Negotiator clears her throat politely and diplomatically suggests that they call it to a vote.

In the end, all, but the Strategist, elect to leave the Earth alone and out of the Time War.

“Right,” says the Auditor, voice soft and fluttery, as he makes some notes on a holopad. “Now that the matter is settled, shall we move on?”

The Strategist sits down and the meeting continues, but the Doctor isn’t listening. Instead, he’s staring intently at the Strategist and the Strategist at him. Both eyes are hard and challenging. They only break away when the meeting ends and they’re forced to part ways, and that should be the end of it, but it isn’t. It never is.

Years later, decades, hundreds, thousands, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that the Strategist walks up to the Doctor, face smug, and whispers tauntingly that Rassilon himself has declared that they’re going to take over time itself. That the war will end, and that he’ll take great pleasure in guaranteeing that the Earth is the first to fall.

The Doctor just smiles at him politely, innocently, and leaves. Soon after Arcadia falls, and then, days later, Gallifrey burns beneath the Doctor’s hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this story was one big adventure in googling Time War timelines and how Time Lord titles work.   
> In the end, I probably ended up with a slight AU, but oh well.
> 
> I hope it was enjoyable anyway :)


End file.
